The Two Krishnas (18 page)

Pooja ignored her father’s ranting, just as Savita Bhatt tried to, and remained pacified, her eyes fixed on carefully wrapping chunks of fish, the bones of which had already been extracted by her mother, in her buttered wheat roti and parceling them into her mouth. But just when she thought it was over, her father would get riled up again, ideas mushrooming in his head. “Do you know that fish is sacred for Christians? Do you? And even
they
don’t have a problem eating it!”

But in her mind she saw the blue god Krishna, smiling approvingly at her as his lips were poised upon his reed to play the music that had hypnotized the Gopis of Brindavan
.

Years ago, when precocious Pooja demanded Krishna’s inclusion in the
puja
room, Savita Bhatt protested ineluctably: “Oh, Pooja, but why Krishna?” And Hari Bhatt articulated what his wife couldn’t but with a sly smile, delighting in Pooja’s subversiveness:
“O-ho!
Krishna, that flirt, that philanderer…”

But Pooja’s eyes widened and the corners of her mouth tightened in anger. As if gods were to be judged by human standards! Even as a teenager, the choice had always been simple for Pooja: Shiva was too fierce and destructive; Rama was too righteous and like her father, she could never abide by his intractable treatment of his wife Sita, banishing her though she was pure and innocent, letting her endure a trial by fire and eventually get swallowed up by the earth to uphold his infallibility. Whenever Pooja or Hari brought this up, they sent Savita fleeing in the opposite direction, her ears plugged. “Ram! Ram! I don’t want to hear this! Stop at once!”

Only Krishna, with his playfulness and myriad humanistic nuances, would do. As a child and butter thief, Krishna’s impishness delighted mischievous children; as an adolescent, his aggressive behavior, rife with sexual overtones, appealed to the romantic Gopi in every girl; and ultimately, as the lover, there was again no equal to Krishna who, doffing aside puritan ideals, pursued each of his affairs with equal vigor and passion.

Pooja smiled at the memory now.

* * *

This was the structure of their relationship: they met twice a week, always at Atif’s apartment and almost never on the weekends since there was no bank business to be conducted then and Rahul couldn’t come up with an excuse to be away for too long.

The weekends grew the loneliest for Atif. He paced Santa Monica’s Third Street Promenade, surrounded by couples holding hands and watching the street entertainers with their balancing acts and dance performances, shopping along the endless row of boutiques, sharing pretzels and Starbucks’ drinks and doing all the mundane, romantic things that formed a relationship.

The place that he felt most comfortable, around people he perceived were most like him, was in the bookstores where solitude was appropriate. Here certain people staked out their regular places with a heap of books and magazines, and perched like birds around the windowsill of the store or in one of the many sitting areas, nearly turning the store into a library.

Sometimes, when even Nona wasn’t available—either because she had latched on to yet another promising date from the Internet or composing one of her magnum opus e-mails to someone she was hoping to meet or drop—he ventured into a late night movie by himself and almost always felt consoled after losing himself in the drama unfolding on the screen and a tub of popcorn he didn’t have to share.

When Rahul was available, they would override his reluctance and step out to Roosterfish in Venice. While this neighborhood bar with its juke box, jeans-and-t-shirt-clad locals, down-to-earth vibe had never been Atif’s hangout (his pack had always preferred the trendier, attitudinized spots in West Hollywood), he was thankful now that at least here he didn’t know anybody, that there would be no explaining to do. “Rahul, I promise you, it’s nothing like what you’re thinking,” Atif had to convince him. “This is just a regular little dive—so much like Blue—without any attitude or pretense. You know, just regular people.” Rahul would invariably pound a couple of vodka shots to summon the necessary courage.

While they kept to themselves most of the time, they managed to befriend Carl Berman, a retired photographer in his late sixties who had been featured in many high profile magazines like
Harpers
and
British Vogue
and who had enough anecdotes to keep them all entertained while he sipped his Manhattans.

“You can be horse-ugly. But use the right lighting, strokes of paint, and suddenly you have the face of an angel,” he said. “Nothing is as it seems. All just shadows and light.”

Even in the closest of couples, sometimes there is a need to reach outwards and connect with other people together, as if by doing so, the relationship gains perspective and breadth that allows it to form more fully. Carl Berman became the perfect, occasional acquaintance, asking few questions about their relationship, having seen enough of the world to know that secrets existed and were better left in the dark. And they were thankful that in some small way, by involving him, their little world had expanded, that they had brought their relationship out into the dim light of a local watering hole.

When they stepped out, Atif was able to show off, no matter the limitations, like when he stood between Rahul’s legs as Rahul sat on the barstool with his hand ever-so-lightly on the small of Atif’s back or when Atif leaned back against the bar knowing Rahul’s arm was thrown around him. At such moments, unbeknownst to Rahul, who was engrossed in Carl Berman’s fascinating stories, or his generous offer to lend them his place in Palm Springs, or his enthusiastic recommendation for The Nest in Ojai, Atif surveyed the room subtly and found guilty pleasure in being observed in the company of the man he loved.
Yes, I have someone. Here he is. Come, bear witness.

* * *

Rahul let himself in with his set of Atif’s keys and caught the answering machine having to record Nona Nguyen’s profuse apology.

“Oh, Atisha! I’m so sorry, honey. Will you forgive me? I know you must be thinking, ‘What kind of a friend am I?’ Shit! I completely forgot yesterday was your birthday. But you know what, sweetie? I’d love to take you out for dinner or…”

Rahul made himself comfortable by pouring himself a glass of Cabernet and settling into the reclining easy chair where he sometimes caught a little nap while waiting for Atif to return from Elton’s. Nona continued for a couple more minutes, rattling down a list of options for a belated celebration, and the answering machine, set to its full volume, grew clangorous and Rahul wished he could just intercept it to shut her up. Wouldn’t it make more sense to call back and negotiate all this in person?

Rahul had bumped into her only a few times; when he was coming into the apartment and she happened to be leaving hers, when he was going home and Nona was lugging her garbage to the dumpster, and the time she had shown up unexpectedly at Atif’s, who had kept the conversation clipped so as to not encourage her to stay. All three times—and at least once, through her formidable spectacles—Nona had stared at him with the subtlety of a
nautch
girl eyeing wads of currency. Nona’s inquisitiveness and meddlesome nature reminded him of Sonali and in both cases, he made his disdain apparent with his lack of niceties.

By the time Atif walked in, Rahul was savoring his second glass of wine listening to Abida. “When were you going to tell me?”

“What? That I used wine and Abida to put a spell on you?” He dropped a large Elton’s paper bag on the floor, threw his weathered leather jacket aside and placed a bunch of tuberoses wrapped in newspaper on the coffee table. Wisps of its intoxicating perfume suffused the room.

“More books?” he asked, jerking his head at the paper bag.

“They’re my only solace.”

“I thought I was your only solace.”

“You drive me in search of it,” Atif mocked. He came closer to Rahul and eyed the half-bottle of wine standing by the chair. “Is that a good idea?”

“Not too bad. Apparently California wines have come a long way.”

Atif gave him a look of disbelief.

“Oh, it can be explained,” he said, swatting the air. “I’m supposed to be wining and dining clients.”

“Instead you’re whining about something I didn’t tell you.” Atif straddled Rahul, who put the glass down, enveloped Atif in his arms. “Even now, I come home wanting to see you so much, I’m half afraid it won’t happen.”

“Careful now. Wasn’t it you who said ‘the universe picks up on these things?’ ”

“Yes, especially the negative,” he said, rolling his eyes. “It seems to have a penchant for it.”

“Then banish the thought.”

“Clean as a slate.”

Rahul kissed him tenderly on the forehead. “And how old did we turn yesterday?”

“Oh, God. How did you find out?”

“Connie Chung next door,” he said, nodding at the answering machine blinking away.

Atif slapped him playfully on the chin. “Racist.”

“And you’re avoiding the question,” Rahul said, fingering the scar on Atif’s lip.

“Old. The big three-oh.”

“God, now I’m depressed,” Rahul groaned and tried to reach for his glass, but Atif stopped him, taking his hand and bringing it to his lips.

“Why? Need someone younger?” Atif adjusted himself in between Rahul’s legs. He felt Rahul’s hardness against his own, raised a brow. “Already? Trust me, mister, you have nothing to be worried about.” The smell of Rahul’s cologne, its notes of bergamot, vetiver and woods mingling with his sweat, made him ravenous. He unbuttoned Rahul’s shirt and began gnawing at the mat of salt and pepper on his chest.

“You really should have told me. Why didn’t you tell me? We should do something.”

“We are…we are…”

“Something special. Seriously.”

“Oh, this is very special.” He began unbelting Rahul’s pants as his mouth hungrily traversed Rahul’s body and tasted the salt of his skin.

“Come on, really, Atif, I want us to do something. Let’s go out and celebrate.”

“What, now?”

“Tomorrow.”

Atif stopped, looked up at him. “But tomorrow’s Saturday.”

“I know.”

“And…”

“I’ll think of something,” he said. “Don’t worry.”

Atif looked at him with incredulity. An ancient instinct warned him to be careful. When, after an interminable period of deprivation, something you want so desperately is offered without solicitation, you should be suspicious. Could he dare to hope, after six months of fantasizing, of seeing Rahul only on weekday evenings, spending every weekend alone and trying not to feel sorry for himself, to see his lover in bright sunshine?

“And work? My work, I mean.”

“When was the last time you took a sick day, hunh?”

Atif shrugged.

“Then it’s set.”

“You’re sure?” he knotted his brows, his finger suddenly darting on Rahul’s chest, afraid to rest.

“Yeah, I’m sure. Dinner, shopping, a movie, let’s just stay out of the Rooster Fish.”

Atif’s eyes filmed with tears even as they lit up. “Stay in, make love, catch a siesta…”

“Anything.”

They kissed deeply. Rahul’s stubble grazed Atif’s cheeks and they prickled, but he mashed his face against Rahul’s, welcoming the discomfort, a reminder for the next day. They heard Anaïs mewling at the door.

“She knows you’re in here,” Rahul said, wrinkling his nose.

“They can sense these things. But she’s not going to steal me away from you, the silly pussy.”

They laughed. Atif clasped Rahul’s hand and noticed the band of discoloration where he normally wore his wedding ring. He felt the pillows of Rahul’s finger joints and said, “You don’t have to do this anymore, you know.”

Rahul looked at him.

“I don’t need this or some ceremony or a certificate to validate what we are.”

“I know,” Rahul smiled. “We go way back.”

In many Hindu stories, even the most impossible marriages, those relationships that were inexplicable for their intensity and attachment, their suddenness and unconventionality, were attributed to possibility of rebirth. Atif caught Rahul’s allusion to this and tears sprang to his eyes. “You’re going to make me cry, aren’t you?”

They tipped onto the floor so that Rahul was on top of Atif and shed their clothes like old skins. They made love with tenderness and hunger, so that time and gravity wound themselves around them, losing their log and weight.

When Atif lay on his stomach on the carpeted floor, his body covered with a film of sweat, his limbs stretched, his body exerted to the point of sweet exhaustion, he reached out for the bottle of Cabernet within arm’s reach and drank from it, rivulets running sensuously down the corners of his mouth. Rahul lay next to him, leaning on one arm, smiling down at him. He plucked out a starry bloom of tuberose from the bouquet on the table next to them, and crushing it in his hands so that it released its rousing perfume, rubbed it down the valley of Atif’s slender back, creating an intoxicating medley of oil and sweat, the perfume of their lovemaking.

Later, they lay in bed together, their bodies woven in the heat. In the rare moment when the sheer curtain floated up and the air kissed their moist skin, they sighed almost in unison. Rahul had his hands knitted behind his head and Atif rested his face in the cavity of Rahul’s chest, his fingers playing with the mat of hair.